Chapter 2
There was Effelmen, First Squad's reserved second in command, and Monty Peck, who was the best singer in the entire platoon. Monty Peck was a fellow with fairer skin compared to the others. His blonde locks tended to curl at the ends and when he was clean-shaven the man's cheeks seemed to glow. But he seemed quite unaware of his handsome face. Efflemen was a metered individual, as keen to respect Cadian traditions as he was to indulge in rough soldierly living, ranging from sleeping underground to playing smart hands of Black Five. In Second Squad was Logue, another corporal, who toted a double-barreled shotgun on all their missions. With him was his good friend Logue, who lacked his companion's penchant for authority and was far more taciturn. But the duo shared an affinity for weaponry and Logue prized a custom autopistol he fit with a stock, extended barrel, and forward grip. Fleming, who was a grenadier, was in Third Squad. By comparison to the more robust, jovial types in the platoon, he was far more moody. No one doubted his ability with the grenade launcher and the bionic facial supplements he wore were a testament to the number of engagements he fought in. With him was a man named Cuyper, who like half of the unit came out of the 540th Youth Corps after its annihilation in the Battle of Kasr Turris nearly seven years ago. Tough, broad in the chest, he provided a more stoic edge to Third Squad.
A man like Queshire, in command of Third Squad, seemed very un-Cadian to some. Whereas the majority of Cadians in the peak of physical fitness boasted sinewy, muscular frames, he was far more narrow. While he possessed the height, he simply couldn't put the weight on despite how hard he worked alongside the men. Many speculated it was because of this very lacking Cadian physique he possessed a somewhat more lackadaisical attitude than the other squad leaders. In garrison, he may have been somewhat lax in the governing of his squad but in combat he was a flexible leader. Holmwood was stern leader and strictly monitored all ten members of First Squad. If there was to be a review, First Squad would arrive first. If there was to be a firing exercise, First Squad would be on line first. Strong in the face and the chest, he was the kind of Cadian one saw on the sprawling posters pasted all over the Kasrs.
Every platoon had their complement of Special Weapons Squads who, by nature, tended to be more eccentric to a degree. While all the survivors of the specialized unit were undeniably Cadian, their subtle mannerisms and devotion to their wargear were almost neurotic. All Guardsmen treated their weapons as an extension of themselves but these veteran troopers acted as if their arms were another soldier altogether. Among them was Arnold Yoxall carried an M36, a Meltagun, and a wide array of grenades and explosives. Before each mission, the well-built, scholarly-looking Cadian primed each individual grenade to his liking. Often, he found unique ways to maximize the effectiveness of his charges, whether that was adding extra chemicals or components or by merely taping them together into satchel charges. While many of the men were versed in explosives, he was a master of the art and took the time to lecture the men on the finer workings of these nifty weapons. Although one might not have guessed from the grease marks left on his brow and cheeks, he was a fiercely intelligent man who was on the track to become a warrior priest like his father before him. Instead, he became a foot soldier in the Cadian Imperial Guard, eventually becoming a grenadier, then a Heavy Weapons Squad trooper specializing in Missile Launchers and Mortars, and then finally graduated into Special Weapons. To a degree, he was elegant, and while he cussed, smoked, and drank like any rough Cadian, he was in possession of high morals. Everyone regarded him with respect, so much so they often referred to him by his given and family name together.
His direct superior was a recently promoted Staff Sergeant Stainthorpe, who was recognized by his bravery and implementation of his troops during the Raid on Kasr Fortis. His rugged, scarred face and gruff disposition masked a deep intelligence of small unit tactics and the usage of wargear designated as Special Weapons. Only those who worked closely with such troopers or counted themselves among their numbers understood just how much training went into it. To be a squad leader in the Special Weapons Squads, one required a vast understanding not just of weapons—reliable laser, unstable plasma, devastating flamethrowers, powerful melta, destructive explosives—but how the men assigned such weapons were to use them. As such, he had an in-depth knowledge of mixed unit and small unit tactics, sniping, spotting, rangefinding, trenching, tunneling, sapping, infantry assaults, sieges, and more. His mere presence in the platoon gave it a flexible, tactical edge.
Hitch and Derryhouse wielded Plasma Guns and were comparable to the Guardsmen in regular infantry squads who carried M36 lasguns. But it was no small thing to bear such powerful but altogether unstable weaponry. To pick up such a weapon without having formal training in its use could result in the bearer being killed by it. While by no means as educated in fieldcraft as the likes of Yoxall and Stainthorpe, they were sagely in the care of their weapons. Hitch proved to be a reliable Guardsman who often detached from his team to one of the squads to give it an edge in firepower. Often, this required him to move across ground under fire. But the young Guardsman showed no fear when it came to such feats. His opposite, Derryhouse, was more specialized. Trained as a spotter, he was never far from his good friend and the platoon sniper Bullard. The two shared many commonalities; whether this was a result of their many years of service or by predispositions, no one quite knew. Both took combat seriously but their nature outside of it was jovial. Bullard especially proved to be raucous when garrisoned in a Kasr or on leave. Derryhouse tended to be more reserved on such occasions but always partook in merrymaking. Together, they made a sightly pair; Derryhouse, who was shorter and stout, and Bullard, who was tall and of average build.
Finally, there was Tatum, who bore the Special Weapons Squad's Flamer. Almost everyone in the platoon considered him somewhat made as he volunteered to undergo training with the weapon when he was first inducted into the unit. To many, it was like receiving a death sentence from a Commissar; the backpack-mounted fuel tank was a prime target for an enemy marksman. One shot could detonate the pack and engulf the user in flames. Somehow, Tatum managed to survive such a strike and his body was covered with the burn scars to prove it. Even after reconstructive surgery and bionic replacements, his face was fleshy and ragged. The skin around his left eye seemed to bloat, nearly squeezing it shut. But he remained undeterred, especially in combat; when casting flame onto an enemy position, one could either hear him singing hymns or laughing.
A component to all three infantry squads was the field chirurgeon. Like the men in the Special Weapons Squads, they had undergone intensive training in their craft. Not only armed with standard wargear, they carried medical kits stocked with pain nullifiers, combat stimulants, generic stims, injectors, field sutures, and a Diagnosticator, they were the men of the platoon who immediately came to the others' aid. Battiste was in First Squad, Salvia in Second Squad, and Walcott was in Third Squad. All three were incredibly brave and would rather dart through enemy fire than leave a wounded comrade in the thick of it. Walcott and Salvia both had a serious nature; they were blunt and to the point on and off the battlefield. When garrisoned, they were meticulous in the preparation of their kits. Battiste was a little more easygoing and was more likely to crack a joke or share a few light words upon treating a wounded man. Often, it was just his mere delivery of an average word or phrase that could make a man, crazed by adrenaline, laugh. Salvia had a rather pinched face for a Cadian while Walcott and Battiste were both fuller. Walcott was a rather trim man by appearance but was far stronger than anyone gave him credit for. Many barfights and close encounters with the enemy left Battiste with a badly twisted nose that always appeared red. It made his face seem very warm and was only complemented by his ever-present big smile. Out of all of them, Salvia was the most soldierly out of them and shaved his head into a mohawk to emphasize that. The trio were a rather nifty bunch, just like the rest of the veteran Guardsmen. Bloody Platoon had been in the field for many years and accumulated a host of extra supplies. Capitalizing on this unreported surplus, they often went into battle with two medical kits instead of one.
Just as important to any platoon as their medical personnel, or perhaps more important, were the Heavy Weapons Squad. A standard, light infantry platoon lacked the constant presence of armoured and air support as mechanized and drop regiments had. While they could hold and take ground against similarly armed foes, anyone with heavier weapons or vehicles could easily overpower them. What drew the line were the Heavy Weapons, adding to the light infantryman's mobility with extreme firepower.
The ranking NCO in their Heavy Weapons component was Walmsley Major, who was in direct command of the First Heavy Weapons Squad but in actuality commanded both. He had a host of brothers and sisters, some serving in Cadian Regiments off-world, in the Interior Guard, or in regiments permanently stationed on the Fortress World. His family laid claim to a lineage of famous non-commissioned officers and he upheld the tradition well; he was highly decorated, although most in the platoon were. He was not the oldest of his siblings but by nature of being the oldest sibling present earned the moniker of 'Major.' Like many of his comrades, he was tall, big in his torso, muscular, had a squarish face, and a bright violet gaze. His immediate younger brother, whom everyone called Walmsley Minor, was not his twin but the resemblance was close enough. What distinguished them was the younger brother's subtle, slimmer frame and narrower face. Some might have suspected that Walmsley Minor might have stewed at the thought of being a mere corporal and having to serve as his brother's assistant. But he never complained and worked as hard as two men. Their shared blood never got in the way of their duties and didn't prevent them from becoming close with the others. Of course, in garrison, the two were known to play a few practical jokes or to share in ridiculous conversations to earn the ire of their comrades.
Skilled automatic weapons experts, they utilized one of Bloody Platoon's Heavy Bolters. The other was manned by Albert and his loader Brownlow. Tall and strong, they often boasted the mechanized servos attached to their Flak Armour was just to stay in uniform; they could carry the gun and its tripod without assistance. Whether that was true or not was irrelevant; like the Walmsley brothers they were talented gunners. Often, they did not need to wait for orders to displace. Years of experience lent an uncanny knowledge of when and where to move their big gun. Moving it was no small feat even with servo enhancements and it was astonishing to the other men to see them weave across a battleground hefting it with such nimble ease.
Heavy Bolters were powerful weapons and there was a certain honor bearing weapons the Adeptus Astartes carried. But when they needed something heavier, they went for one of the prized Cadian weapons: the Autocannon. Easy to build and maintain, it was versatile and was of use in almost every combat scenario a Cadian platoon found itself in. Like almost every weapon in the Astra Militarum's arsenal, it possessed drawbacks but Bloody Platoon's Autocannon team, Sudworth and Lowe found ways to mitigate them. Unlike Brownlow and Albert, they had no qualms about using both servos and suspensor harnesses, and utilized this not just to convey their weapon but carry extra ammunition for it. Generally, they equipped their weapon with a wheeled mount on long marches and flat terrain. This design was complemented by a bipod. However, when garrisoned or fighting on elevated terrain, they forwent the mount and traded the bipod for a tripod. Sudworth, the gunner, was not the most disciplined in his personage and often he was quietly cited for being out of uniform. One particular struggle was the order of precedence regarding his ribbon rack. But when it came to his weapon, he was nothing short of a sage. Autocannons tended to burn through their ammo too quickly and he was a master of controlled fire. Often, he treated his weapon more like a huge rifle than an automatic weapon. Still, when hordes of enemies attacked, he was swift to hold down the trigger. Lowe was one of the biggest men in the entire platoon and used his strength to carry even more ammunition than his gunner. Amiable and resolute, he was as loyal to the platoon as he was to the weapon he tended. When someone suggested leaving the heavy weapons behind during their flight from Kasr Fortis, it was Lowe who silenced the suggestion by threatening to knock the speaker's teeth out with the barrel of his Autocannon.
As devastating as Heavy Bolters and Autocannons were, neither proved a match for heavy armoured targets. Tanks and similar armoured vehicles were one of the many banes of light infantrymen. But Bloody Platoon had Foster, Ledford, Knaggs, and Fletcher. All four were burly, scarred, bright, brave, wild Cadians who operated the platoon's anti-tank weapons. Foster, who lost his jaw while serving with the 540th Youth Corps and now had a bionic replacement, and Ledford, whose baldness revealed the bionic plate which made up the rear portion of his skull, manned the Lascannon. Heavy, cumbersome, and inelegant, they nonetheless used the weapon to great effect on the enemy. While the past months saw them dealing with ragged heretics instead of the Traitor Legions they had become rather accustomed to, they found ways to use the weapon. Depending on the power output, the standard M36 lasguns used by the infantrymen emitted red, blue, and golden lasbolts. But the sheer energy of the Lascannon gave the beam a radiant purple color and the report was incredibly loud. If it hit a man, it was certainly devastating, but even if it just struck the ground among the enemy it scorched the earth and threw debris into the air. The color, noise, and magnitude of the blast could severely impact or even break the enemy's morale. Ledford and Foster were considered some of the bravest among the Heavy Weapons Squad as their weapon created a significant muzzle flash as compared to other weapons. Often drawing intense fire and protected only by the gun shield and whatever cover they could afford, they fought hard to support the platoon. Knaggs and Fletcher were considered braver still; their Missile Launcher stood higher than average on its tripod. The former Guardsmen possessed many wounds to his arms, shoulder, and face, as all he had was the launcher's shield for protection. But he was deft in his use of the launcher and was able to destroy hard targets or pockets of resistance. His loader, Fletcher, was quite educated in the storage and implementation of munitions. Like the others, he was strong, and utilized his advanced flak armour to carry a diverse stock of missiles into battle.
Lastly, there was the mortar team composed of Olhouser and Snyder. Olhouser was one of the most experienced, brave, and honored men in the platoon despite being a corporal. Previously, he served in the 1547th Artillery Regiment and was one of its few survivors. Awarded the Obscurus Honourifica for manning a Basilisk despite overwhelming odds, he was a prime Cadian. Upon his request, Bloody Platoon did not talk much of his esteemed decoration and treated him like any other trooper. He brought his skills to the infantry and used an advanced set of training in range finding, munitions, and spotting to effectively support the men with the mortar. Likewise, Snyder had similar training and was an adept loader. Although the others often made fun of the plucky, puggish mortarman for his position, he was correct when he insisted there was a necessary skill set for a loader. If a loader was not agile in his movements and ignorant of his commands, the mortar became a useless metal tube instead of a dangerous, effective weapon. These six men constituted the second Heavy Weapons Squad, which reported directly to Corporal Foster, the junior NCO. He ran a tight shift, perhaps tighter than Walmsley Major, but his command was not brittle.
Finally, there was the Platoon Command Squad. One of the most important in their number was Sergeant Honeycutt, the senior medic. All the field chirurgeons reported to before they reported to the platoon commander. He was autocratic, grumpy, and temperamental whether he was treating a wounded man or not. But no one could deny his bravery under fire and the care he provided to the men on and off the battlefield. While lacking in manners, when a man required anything from the art of field medicine, they went to him first. Honeycutt's worth was measured in the multitude of Crimson Skull medals on his chest. He was one of the few men in the entire 1333rd Regiment who had served off-world and returned to the planet. His knowledge of the greater Imperium was greater than anyone's in Bloody Platoon but he was often hesitant to talk about it.
Among the platoon's leadership was Color Sergeant Babcock who carried their standard. The flag, which bore the regiment's colors and the specific numbers of the platoon, was a symbol of their pride, honor, faith, and victory on the field of battle. A Guardsman could find his courage renewed just by gazing at it flapping in the breeze. But even more inspiring was the Guardsman holding it and Babcock was no exception. Tall, broad in the chest, who kept all but the top of his head shaved, riddled with scars but ultimately undaunted, he was one of the most daring men in the platoon. Flags garnered attention just like the muzzle flash of Foster and Ledford's Lascannon. Babcock preferred it that way, believing the fire he drew saved the lives of his comrades. Often, he went into battle without a helmet, perfectly unafraid of a stray bullet striking his skull. A master with a Laspistol, he was even better with his Power Sword. He was the only man in Bloody Platoon with Duelist Honors and they all respected him for it. As deft as he was with a pistol and sword, more than once he had pierced the heart of a heretic with the shaft of the flag. Not once had he dropped it on the ground.
Nobody could think of Bloody Platoon's Command Squad without conjuring up the bubbly nature and earnest smile of Drummer Boy. His true name was Felix Gladwin and he held the rank of Corporal, but nobody ever referred to him by either. Drummer Boy stood out as a spirited soul among a platoon of personable Guardsmen. He was chipper, youthful, and very intelligent. The Vox-caster he carried was one of the most important pieces of wargear Bloody Platoon brought into battle. Without it, they were cut off from the rest of the regiment and whatever units were in support. It was easier to pick up and fire a lasgun in the heat of battle, but Drummer Boy withstood the test by monitoring the Vox channels and radioing in support. To be a platoon Voxman brought on extended training; he was an expert navigator, could call in for both artillery and air support, and was an expert technician. More than once, he was able to cannibalize communication sets for parts to repair their own Vox units. Although the other Voxmen in the platoon were all more experienced than him, Drummer Boy proved himself while still in the Youth Corps and they all deferred to his judgement. Everybody except Drummer Boy himself was aware of such a deep sign of respect. He was good natured in that way, but from time to time his youth showed and a bad battle left impressions upon him. So far, none of it prevented him from performing his duty.
The newest addition to Bloody Platoon was Junior Commissar Lilias Juventas Carstensen. Like any individual who was produced by the Officio Prefectus, the men feared her at first. That fear was never absent but it had abated some. Replaced by a profound respect, Bloody Platoon admired the orange-haired, scarred Junior Commissar for her prowess and bravery in battle. Over the months, Bloody Platoon grew accustomed to her living among them. In a strange, surprising way, they felt rather safe with her. While her authority was bound by her station, she still did carry a great deal of weight in the daily going-ons of the men. But some Commissars were likely to break up games of Black Five or extinguish a light-hearted conversation because they heard something they didn't understand or, more probably, simply didn't like. Carstensen sometimes broke up their more rowdy behavior, policed some of their languages when they were bored or restless, and was quite diligent when it came to the men's faith. Other than that, she left them well enough alone. A quiet sort, she didn't engage with the troopers all too often unless it was necessary, but they were beginning to notice she was engaging them more often. This could mean anything from a curt nod to a few words outside of a lecture on faith, but the men appreciated it. Many recalled her bravery during the Battle of the Cove, the Battle of Army's Meadow, and the Raid on Kasr Fortis. In each one, she proved to be a rallying point for the men. She was with them during the entirety of those battles and in hushed tones they believed she truly was one of their number.
Likewise, Lieutenant Hyram had earned his place among the men. Once, he was a sniveling, out of place, sloppy excuse for a Cadian Shock Trooper. But through battle and with the aid of his erstwhile assistant, he had become a fine junior officer. His studious nature of the years was finally paying off now that he found his courage. Trapped in the confines of an Astra Militarum logistical office attached to the Departmento Munitorum sect on Cypra Mundi, he treated his wounded military spirit with numerous tomes on military tactics. Armed with this knowledge, his understanding of small unit tactics was almost unparalleled by anyone in Bloody Platoon. A minor noble by birth, he steadily shed most of his upper class tendencies and was, to the men, just another Shock Trooper. He stood in line with the enlisted men at the mess canisters, he practiced on the range with them, and often took time each night while garrisoned to sit with each squad for a while. Many of the men were illiterate and Hyram, being highly educated, took time to teach them their letters. Hyram, however, proved to be rather wily and was able to deflect some of Regimental Command's attention from Bloody Platoon with his eloquent speech and well-worded assurances. Although still strictly monitored by their NCOs and Junior Commissar, the men were able to have a little bit more freedom in their barracks. In combat, he was personally brave but understood that an officer often had to not act but command if they were to succeed. This troubled him, but he bore the burden well enough. Whatever doubts Bloody Platoon once had about him were extinguished by his newfound warrior spirit and his actions during their previous battles.
Perhaps the most well-known among their number, a constant face in quiet times and battle, a man they all trusted and admired, was the platoon sergeant. Nicknames and warnames were very common among soldiers of the Imperium and Staff Sergeant Silas Cross earned his when he became an NCO. Some saw the squandered, minor noble too strict and taking his authority too far and dubbed him 'Marshal Silas.' When they realized he was pushing them so they would be more prepared to fight the enemy, the moniker shifted to 'Marsh Silas,' and almost every single individual in the 1333rd Regiment called him such. Hyram relied on him for almost everything, Carstensen trusted him almost as an extension of herself, he was a force multiplier for the other NCOs, and the enlisted men loved him. Everyone relied on his perseverance and even though Monty Peck was the best singer, they always asked Marsh to sing first. A colorful ribbon rack denoted his bravery in combat and he bore scars from many wounds. Hyram was their leader, but many considered Marsh Silas to be the very soul of Bloody Platoon.
There were many others: Astle the Voxman of Second Squad, Caferro the grenadier, Hoole and Marsden who were both Corporal in First Squad, Capron, Northmore, Jupp, and Keach, all troopers. The First Platoon of the First Company, they were all decorated veterans who embodied Cadian martial spirit. But they were more than that; Marsh Silas firmly believed that despite their shared blood every Cadian platoon was an assortment of misfits. Indeed, Bloody Platoon was a motley, merry, brotherly band who drank heavily, smoked through half a dozen packs of lho-sticks a day, talked a lot, swore much, who were so eager to engage the enemy they couldn't help but have a song in their hearts.
The sun was still high over Army's Meadow. Yellow flowers swayed in the sea breeze and sparkling, glassy, green waves smashed on the shore line. Down the paved road which wound through the peninsula's center came a short column of Cadian Shock Troops. Their heavy winter uniforms were stained brown and white from dirt and snow. Shoe packs were blocky with cakes of dirt. Dull dents, pale scratches, and dry stains covered their Flak Armour chestplates. All wore beards and stubble as well as dust on their faces. But their swinging gait was strong and swift, they all wore smiles, and even the wounded men were joining in:
"At the frontline, on Cadia's soil,
Who shall stand in defense, who will commit to the toil?
Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon!
Come to slay! Seize the day!
Bloody Platoon is on the way!
Traitors, heretics, xenos swarm upon the Imperium's shore,
we're ready to go, at the fore!
Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon! Bloody Platoon!
Come to slay! Seize the day!
Bloody Platoon is on the way!"
Marching abreast of the column, Marsh Silas had handed over his weapons and rucksack to Sergeant Holmwood so he could carry Jupp was shot in the ankles. Honeycutt extracted both bullets but they caused extensive damage to his feet and calves. Even with nullifiers and stimulants, it was too painful to walk. Unwilling to take up one of the field chirurgeons' litters when more wounded men needed them, Jupp allowed the platoon sergeant to carry him upon his back. Despite his aching feet, Jupp joined Marsh and the others in their song. When they finished the second verse, they passed through the gate into their base of operations. At the front of the column, Hyram raised his fist into the air and Bloody Platoon gave a loud cheer. Despite fending off the ambush, they still managed to return to base ahead of schedule and before any other outfit in the 1333rd Regiment.
Waiting for them was Colonel Isaev. He looked impressive in his winter khaki uniform; a dignified, olive drab mantle covered his right shoulder. In white letters it bore the Regiment's numeral. On the left side of his chest were his ribbons and medals, which glinted in the sunlight. He wore a low-peaked khaki cap with a black bill. On the front was a golden Aquila pin. Behind him was a retinue of staff officers and senior enlisted personnel. All were impeccable in their military dress.
Hyram gave orders and the platoon formed several lines. The Platoon Command Squad stood in front of the first ranks and in front of them was Hyram, Carstensen, and Marsh Silas. Jupp was still on his back, arms laced around his neck and his legs in the platoon sergeant's hands. Colonel Isaev stormed up to the platoon leader and towered over him. He did not even bother to return the junior officer's salute.
"Lieutenant Hyram!" he roared. "Just what do you think you're doing back in camp from maneuvers so early!?"
"Sir! First Platoon, First Company has completed all its assigned maneuvers, reconnaissance, and engagements with the enemy, as per Regimental Command's orders, is now reporting to the officer commanding to notify him of the mission's success! Sir!" Hyram belted, his hand still poised at his brow.
"And why is that your platoon is back before any of the rest!?"
"Sir, First Platoon, First Company is the best damned platoon in the entire 1333rd Regiment!"
Eyes narrowed, brow furrowed, lips pursed, Isaev lingered menacingly over Hyram. The platoon leader continued to keep his hand raised in salute. Suddenly, Isaev smiled and leaned back. He returned the salute and then shook Hyram's hand.
"Well done, Lieutenant. You and your platoon truly embody those values which we deem Cadian. Get your wounded men to the Mediace center for treatment and then set to work on your after action report. I'd very much like to decorate your cited men as soon as possible."
"Of course, sir," Hyram replied. While Isaev and the platoon leader began strolling deeper into camp, Marsh Silas turned around and repeated Isaev's command. Walcott and Hitch were kind enough to take Jupp and Holmwood returned Marsh's wargear. After donning his rucksack and throwing his weapons over each shoulder, he jogged to catch up. Already with Hyram and Isaev was Junior Commissar Carstensen. Politely, Marsh followed directly behind the trio and didn't make his presence known.
Hyram was speaking of their encounter with the heretics and was pointing at his data-slate. "Here, this one was a month ago. This one here and this one here, four weeks ago. Three weeks here, two weeks, and this was today's action. We're coming across a great deal of heretics out in the hinterland which is, theoretically, supposed to be clear right now. Now, we didn't find anything while we conducted our maneuvers across that snowy waste, sir. Not a single camp, compound, repurposed fortification, or even a sentry's post. We found no trace whatsoever of heretics. Yet they assault us in the field and they probe us here."
"Son, there are Sentinel and Valkyrie patrols out there every single day and night. I receive and review reports daily; there are no signs of a buildup at all. It might come as a shock to someone at your station but I try not to doubt my junior officers. You are not the only one to notify of these developments and I believe you all. But unless I have tangible proof of a heretical presence, there is nothing we can do but conduct our normal garrison duties."
Marsh Silas raised an unimpressed eyebrow, pursed his lips, and shook his head. He recalled how quickly Colonel Isaev seized upon the notion that the filthy Eldar were planning to assault Cadia just by the mere presence of a single Pathfinder. Briefly, he wondered whatever happened to the escapee but then put it out of his mind. There was no use in mulling over it. Either way, he longed to take greater offensive operations in the sector but Isaev was being quite hesitant about it. He liked and admired the senior officer but Isaev often proved to be unknowable. Sometimes, he was ready to throw men into a potential battle at a moment's notice but then would need a great out of information before committing them on another front. Marsh Silas didn't quite remember him acting in such a manner but he supposed that after serving under Barlocke for so long, he was now exposed to the few faults his commanding officer possessed.
Is there something you want to discuss with me, my dear Silvanus? Barlocke, or rather the fragment of Barlocke's voice resonated in Marsh's mind. By now, he was accustomed to it and did not shiver so much when the paradoxical chill ran down his spine and the warm breath filled his head. Shifting his shoulders a little, he turned from the others.
"Shh, not now," he whispered under his breath.
Oh, but I thought you required something of—
"Hush yourself, we'll speak later," Marsh insisted quietly. Junior Commissar Carstensen turned around sharply and gazed at him. Standing up straight, he did his best to appear normal. For a few moments, she held a piercing glare that eventually softened. She slowed down and began walking beside the platoon sergeant. "Junior Commissar," he said, bowing his head.
"Staff Sergeant," she greeted. "Is your back sore from the march?"
"Ol' Jupp ain't too heavy a man but I ain't opposed to kicking these here boots off," Marsh replied, looking down at his shoe packs. "Yerself, ma'am?"
"Quite fine." She walked with her hands folded behind her back, as if she was inspecting a work detail. Her orange locks swayed back and forth across her shoulders. The sun shone on her pale face, giving it a slight pinkish hue. Marsh found there was something hesitant about her. While she faced forward, he caught a glimpse of her blue-green eyes occasionally glancing at him. Carstensen's lips remained tightly pressed in a thin line.
Just as Marsh was about to speak, trying to find something about the platoon to say, she turned her gaze. "I would like to inspect the perimeter of our section before we begin adding to the defenses. I'd like to gauge where our weakest points are and what kind of materials we need. It would be of most aid to me to have your assistance in this matter."
"O' course, ma'am," Marsh replied, smiling a little. "I'm yer humble servant."
"Very good," she said, snapping her gaze forward again. Just as quickly, she brought it back. "Staff Sergeant, you are a servant of Lieutenant Hyram before me, and a servant of the Emperor before all else."
"Yes, ma'am," Marsh said, trying not to chuckle but failing. For a moment, he was worried she might take offense but she just blinked and looked ahead once more. Both focused on Hyram and Isaev, who had walked ahead somewhat. He was standing in front of Colonel Isaev and wore a pleading expression. Both arms were outstretched and his data-slate was in his right hand.
"Sir, I ask again for your permission to reconnoiter the Cove."
"We sealed that hole seven months ago, Lieutenant."
"Yes, sir, I know, but I think the grounds might yield clues as to where we can find the heretics in this area. Bloody Platoon would only need our wargear and supply drops in order to fend for ourselves while out there, sir."
"I understand you'd like to solve this mystery, Lieutenant. But I have to deny your request again. Your men need rest and we have more pressing matters at hand in the coming days." Isaev folded his hands behind his back and stood up straight. "We are to be reinforced with a fresh batch of Whiteshields. Each platoon will be granted a squad of ten men. They shall be reporting on the morrow. Until then, attend your men."
Hyram and Isaev exchanged salutes and the latter turned on his heel. Marching past Marsh Silas Carstensen and returning their salutes, he drifted back to Regimental Headquarters. As Bloody Platoon tramped up the cliffside slope to their barracks, the trio gathered together.
"Whiteshields," Marsh echoed to Hyram. The Lieutenant sighed and rubbed his jaw.
"It appears so," he said apprehensively. "One more burden for the days ahead."
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